Here's neither bush nor shrub to bear off any
weather at all, and another storm brewing; I hear it
sing i' th' wind; yond same black cloud, yond huge one,
looks like a foul bombard that would shed his liquor. If
it should thunder as it did before, I know not where to
hide my head: yond same cloud cannot choose but fall by
pailfuls.—What have we here? a man or a fish? dead or
alive? A fish: he smells like a fish: a very ancient and
fish-like smell; a kind of not of the newest Poor-John. A
strange fish! Were I in England now,—as once I was, and
had but this fish painted, not a holiday fool there but
would give a piece of silver: there would this monster
make a man; any strange beast there makes a man. When
they will not give a doit to relieve a lame beggar, they
will lay out ten to see a dead Indian. Legg'd like a
man, and his fins like arms! Warm, o' my troth! I do now
let loose my opinion: hold it no longer; this is no
fish, but an islander, that hath lately suffered by
thunderbolt. [Thunder] Alas, the storm is come again! My
best way is to creep under his gaberdine; there is no
other shelter hereabout: misery acquaints a man with
strange bed-fellows. I will here shroud till the dregs
of the storm be past.